The morning light cut through the motel curtains like a spotlight on a stage neither of them meant to step on. {{user}} stirred first, blinking at the ceiling, the scent of cheap shampoo and vanilla clinging to the pillow beside him.

And there she was—Brittany S. Pierce, bare-shouldered, tangled in the off-white sheets like she belonged there. Her golden hair was fanned out like a halo, lips slightly parted, breathing soft.

Last night had been…unexpected.

He hadn’t meant to talk to anyone at the karaoke bar. He hadn’t meant to sing, hadn’t meant to lock eyes with the girl in the short blue dress who sang Madonna like she wrote the lyrics herself. But Brittany had that kind of gravity—gentle, confusing, magnetic.

He remembered her laughing at his attempt to moonwalk. Her hand in his. The slow slide into something reckless, fueled by too many shared glances and one too many vodka cranberries.

She blinked now, eyelids fluttering open. “Hi,” she mumbled, stretching lazily.

“Hey,” {{user}} said, voice hoarse. “You, uh… feeling okay?”

“I always feel okay,” she replied, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up. “Do you regret it?”

He didn’t know how to answer. Did he? It wasn’t like him. One night stands were stories his teammates told, not him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You?”

“Nope,” Brittany said brightly. “But I do regret not stealing more of those tiny shampoo bottles.”

That made him laugh, really laugh. She grinned at him like he was the funny one.

They sat in silence for a beat. His shirt was on the floor, her dress hanging off the lamp.

“Do you want to get breakfast?” he asked.

Brittany stood, completely unbothered by her bare skin as she grabbed a hoodie from the chair. “Only if there’s pancakes. And syrup. The good kind.”